


The Cure for Nightmares

by definitelyflowers



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Kissing, Friendship/Love, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-13 07:51:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10509495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/definitelyflowers/pseuds/definitelyflowers
Summary: Maxson returns, again and again, to Danse. The nightmares stay the same, but things between them change.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s nearly midnight when the knock comes to his door, quiet and unsure. Danse pinches his nose and sighs. No one bothers him this late, not for anything unimportant, and he puts on his business face as he opens up his room to the cool night air. Maxson stands on the other side of the threshold, eyes rimmed red with tears. He clutches his arms to his chest in a desperate attempt to cling to himself. Crickets and frogs hum around them, filling the pensive quiet with noise. Danse frowns deeply, thick eyebrows raised.

“Elder?”

“Not tonight, Danse. Can I come inside?”

Danse moves out of the way, holding his hand out in an offer for Maxson to enter. Shoulders slumped forward, Maxson shuffles passed, his slippers sliding against the polished wood floor. He collapses into the nearby chair, running his fingers through his already messy hair. Danse sits across from him and grabs the closest whiskey bottle, pouring two shots. Maxson takes his and downs it in one go, barely wincing at the burn in his throat. He yawns and touches the scar gouged into the side of his face, cutting through smooth, hairless skin. Danse recognizes the habit, has since the young elder first came back with his cheek sliced in half, his left arm in dangling limp and useless in its socket, his legs both ripped to pieces.

“Been dreaming again?” He asks as he pours Maxson another shot. “You know, there are professionals you can talk to about—”

“That’s not an option, Danse.”

“Elder—”

“Don’t call me that. My name is Arthur. You know that. My name is Arthur.” He sniffles and dabs the moisture from his eyes with his organic arm.

“Arthur, we both know that these nightmares aren’t healthy. You might be an Elder, but you’re only sixteen. You need to talk it out.”

“Why do you think I’m here?”

Danse nods, sipping his whiskey slowly.

They sit in silence for a few minutes as Maxson gathers himself and the insects sing outside. Sweat drips down the back of Danse’s neck, his tank top sticking to his skin. His dog tags clink together as he leans in his chair, resting his body weight on the back two legs.

Maxson’s t-shirt is damp, and Danse knows better than to think it’s the Capital Wasteland’s humidity. The young elder isn’t honest with many people, but he trusts Danse enough to tell him how terribly the incident haunts him, inhabiting his dreams on a nightly basis.

“When is the last time you slept?”

“I try not to.”

“Arthur,” he pauses, unsure how to phrase his concerns so Maxson will accept them. “Arthur, when I had to put down Cutler, it followed me into my dreams. It’s hard to forget these parts of our lives, and it’s good to remember the strength we’ve shown in the face of danger and the monstrosities of the Wasteland, but the way you’re doing this, these two years... It’s not healthy.”

He leans forward and places his hand on top of Maxson’s, squeezing.

“I try to get over it. The beast is dead. I won. Every night, I tell myself, but I see it coming out of the fog and I can’t sleep. I understand Cutler and how difficult that must have been, and yet you didn’t see them dip him, you didn’t see him turn. The deathclaw _ate me_ , Danse. It ripped off my arm and it chewed it and swallowed it and it could have done it to all of me and—” He sucks in a shaky breath and sobs. “And all that saved me was a lucky hit. They tell me I’m born of steel, but the only steel I have in me is in the place the deathclaw stole flesh and blood and bone.”

Maxson’s mechanical fingers curl into the fabric of his pants leg, twisting it in a tighter grip than a normal human could, but to Danse, it’s indistinguishable from the real thing. He finishes his drink and pours another round.

“I can’t comfort you. What happened has happened, and the nightmares will always be there.”

“You comfort me. Just...being around you. That’s enough.”

He flashes a shaking smile at Danse and sips at his whiskey this time. Danse runs his thumb along the top of Maxson’s hand, the touch relaxing for both of them. The tension in Maxson’s shoulders begins to dissipate, and his eyes flutter from opened to closed, drifting in and out of sleep.

“I’ll walk you home,” Danse offers, standing and stretching. The bones of his back pop as he does so, the whiskey surging in his blood. Maxson shakes his head and jumps to his feet. He stumbles forward, bumping into Danse as the older man circles the table.

“No. No, I don’t want to go to my room. I don’t want to be alone. _Please_.”

Danse nods. “Okay. You can have my bed, I’ll sleep on the floor, if you need the company.”

“I don’t need the company, Danse. I need you.”

“Arthur.” He’s heard similar things before, a little too much whiskey and not nearly enough sleep makes Maxson loose with his words. “Now is not the time.”

“Then when is?”

Maxson doesn’t need to stand on the tops of his toes anymore, he’s grown since he was fourteen and came back with more wounds than a normal soldier could sustain. He’s almost as tall as Danse, and closing the distance between their lips is quick, both arms wrapping around Danse’s strong shoulders. He’s drunk and sloppy, using too much tongue to lick at Danse’s unresponsive mouth.

Danse pries him away, holding him still. Maxson may have grown taller, but he’s still not as strong. The whiskey weakens him further, and the firm shake of Danse’s head causes him to break down into another set of tears.

“Why?” He asks, hands shaking by his side. “Why don’t you like me?”

“You’re sixteen, scared, and drunk. I’m a paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel, and you’re my elder. This is inappropriate at the best of times, Arthur.”

“Fuck you!” He screams and rips himself out of Danse’s grasp. “What if I said you have to? You have to obey me.”

“You know that isn’t how this works.”

Maxson claws at his hair and cries, covering his face with his hands. Danse waits for him to finish before speaking again.

“Let me walk you home.”

“I don’t want to go home.”

“It’s for the best.”

“No, I—I can’t be alone. Please. Not in the dark.”

And there’s a fear in his voice, a trembling anxiety that breaks Danse’s heart. He sighs and squeezes the bridge of his nose, regretting his offer before it leaves his mouth.

“Perhaps you can stay here tonight, but not if you try to kiss me again.”

“I won’t. Don’t make me leave, Danse. Please don’t make me leave.”

“Alright. Lay down, I’ll set out my sleeping roll.”

“No.” Danse blinks, lifting an eyebrow in silent question. “I mean, can we be in the same bed together? I won’t try anything, I just need... I need someone.”

Danse grits his teeth. “Very well. Be good.”

“I will. Thank you.”

He places his hand on Maxson’s shoulder, squeezing it gently.


	2. Chapter 2

Danse taps the pencil against his desk, the candles burning low as the shadows creep closer. He gnaws on his lower lip absently, consumed by thought, letting the hours pass while he sketches out modifications for his rifle. The plans may never come to fruition, but it’s better than sleeping. Things have been tense lately, the plans for the next mission to the Commonwealth to find the source of the synthetic humans and the Institute weighing on everyone’s mind, especially his. There’s a faint wrongness to it all, yet he can’t afford thinking about it, won’t waste time digging into his paranoia. Since Cutler, the aching sensation of something being off has followed him, keeping close behind. Danse refuses to let it stop him. He knows better than to let it stop him.

The door to his quarters opens without a sound, but the rush of fresh air draws his attention to the darkness of the ship. He’s still trying to get used to being up in the air, still trying to rationalize being this far off the ground. It’s exhilarating and frightening at the same time. The whir of machine is almost soothing. Still, Danse has a hard time becoming comfortable floating a hundred feet in the sky. Sleep is difficult enough on solid earth, let alone suspended by technology he doesn’t quite trust.

“Elder,” he greets, dipping his head before turning back to his designs. Danse straightens out the papers and slides them into a file. He sets it in the top drawer, which clicks with a tense finality.

“Don’t call me that.” Maxson’s words are angry, slurred at the edges, obviously tainted by alcohol.

“Have you been drinking?” The answer is obvious enough.

“A recovery party found some good vodka.”

“Did you think to share?”

Maxson waves a half-empty bottle in front of Danse’s face.

“With my favorite paladin, of course.”

There’s not much he can say to force Maxson out of his room, so he grabs two glasses and takes the bottle from the elder, not wanting to risk him spilling it everywhere. Maxson takes the shot and wipes the edge of his mouth where a little dribbled out. He stumbles onto the bed and lays out, socked feet dangling off the side.

“You’re my favorite person, Danse.” Maxson is always eager to share his thoughts with vodka churning in his system. Danse sips his own drink and stays quiet. “My favorite paladin, my favorite friend. My only friend.”

“Sir, I—”

“Sir this and sir that, I’m not in the mood, soldier. You always call me elder when we’re alone and I hate it. We’re friends! Buddies!” He lifts himself halfway on his elbows, a lopsided smile curling up the side of his face, twisting the scar out of proportion. Danse is thankful Maxson left on the prosthetic. He would never say it to the man’s face, but the missing limb disturbs him greatly, the short nub where it used to be nauseating.

“Arthur, what do you need?”

Maxson grows serious. His brow furrows in thought. “They’ve been happening for a week.”

“Since you boarded the ship?”

“Yeah.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

He’s used to Maxson coming to him for help after a series of nightmares, though those times have been growing further apart. Danse pours himself another shot but shakes his head when Maxson motions for more.

“Why not?”

“You’ve had half a bottle.”

“So? Helps me sleep.”

“You’re not sleeping now.”

Maxson snorts.

“Whatever.” Then his eyes grow misty, far away. Danse swallows, expecting the worst when Maxson finally speaks again. “It was bigger this time. Every dream is like how I remember it, the beast coming out of nowhere, knocking my rifle from my hands and piercing my skin with its claws. Jagged nails. Bloody nails. Fire and pain and screaming, my throat so raw from screaming and it feels like it’ll never stop but then it yanks, and Danse, everything goes with it. Everywhere is blood and its teeth in the moonlight as it crunches through my bones and swallows it whole. But these ones? They don’t—they don’t stop there. I’m lying on the ground and I’m shrieking and afraid and I can’t move. It’s like I’m stuck. Stuck to the earth, roots lashed around me. And it looks at me with those eyes, and Danse it knows what it’s doing, and it starts to saw my legs off with those claws and it eats them, too, then my other arm. It eats and it eats until it reaches my neck and I don’t know how I’m still alive but then there’s darkness, darkness everywhere and I don’t know what to do, this keeps happening.”

It’s difficult for Danse to watch Maxson break down into tears. This isn’t the small fourteen-year-old boy that was a day out of the medical bay when he came to Danse the first time. This is a man, eighteen and the leader of the Brotherhood of Steel, who lays on his bed and sobs.

Danse slides from his chair to Maxson’s side. He squeezes his arm under Maxson’s shoulders and lifts him so that the elder’s head is cradled against his chest. His fingers run through the short crop of hair on Maxson’s head, shushing him and rocking until the shaking fades to small trembles and the bawling becomes sniffles.

“Danse?” Maxson’s voice is small.

“Yes, Arthur?”

Their eyes meet, and Maxson’s hand comes to rest on his cheek, rubbing the stubble gently. He leans up and kisses Danse’s lips, soft and tentative, so unlike two years ago.

Danse doesn’t want to respond. He knows it’s wrong to take advantage of a drunk man six years his junior, but against his better judgment, he dips into the kiss, his palm sliding down Maxson’s side to hold him closer. He should pull away when Maxson’s hand cups him through his thin sweatpants, should stop this before things go too far, but the bubbling in his heart and the throbbing in his groin mix with the vodka in his veins. This has been a long time coming, he thinks, and the light moans escaping his mouth only serve to encourage Maxson’s fondling.

They lay back on the bed, Maxson breaking away to smile as he gasps for breath.

“Danse?” His eyes don’t open, his head resting on Danse’s pillow.

“Yes, Arthur?”

“Can I sleep in here tonight?”

“Of course.”

“You’re my best friend,” he mumbles, sleep already dragging him into unconsciousness.

Danse’s vision swims. He pulls the blanket up over them both, flipping Maxson on his side in case the vodka decides to come back up, and curls around the smaller man. It’s easy to breathe in the lye-and-sweat scent of Maxson, easy to wrap his arm around Maxson’s narrow waist and press into his warmth.

“You’re mine.”

And it should be comforting, to know the likelihood of Maxson remembering their second kiss in the morning is slim, but it weighs him down like a bellyful of stones. For once since Cutler, he’s not afraid of revisiting the scenes of his life.

Now, he’s worried new dreams may be stalking near.


	3. Chapter 3

The party ends long after midnight. Beer bottles and snack cake wrappings litter the mess hall and recreation decks of the Prydwen. Nineteen isn’t as special as eighteen—Danse remembers the hangover from Maxson’s eighteenth party well—but this one was over-the-top. Already, dozens of initiates and scribes are passed out in various corners or vomiting over the railing, and Danse makes a note of who does what so tomorrow he can issue sanitation duties fairly.

He avoids the crowds of people waiting to board the vertibirds and scoots into his room, shutting the door with a small click behind him. Danse breathes and out through his nose. Being in command is one thing, so are small scouting parties, but having to mingle and speak with other people drains him so completely. The rucksack on his bed is more a gift than a burden. No one is sure how long they’ll be gone on this mission. The Commonwealth isn’t a long flight, but without backup, it could prove deadly. What if their radios don’t reach or the place is swarming with synths? He wants to be a good leader, but a series of dangerous hypotheticals flash through his mind.

Danse shakes his head. Now is the time for packing, not fear.

This should have been finished in the morning, but Maxson insisted on going over the plans once again, although the past few months have been spent in organizing everything. The second time, Danse was glad to humor him. The third time, he handed the elder his first beer of the night and told him there was nothing more to discuss. A slight breech in the chain of command, but in private, no one was around to see.

The room doesn’t take long to pace. Danse peeks in every corner, making sure nothing important is left behind. He’s done this a dozen times, and he’s sure by sunrise the next morning, he’ll have done it a dozen more. Caution is never a mistake, although Maxson would laugh to see him shuffling through his trunk of oddities, strange things picked up over his childhood as a scavenger and his adulthood as a member of the Brotherhood of Steel.

He lifts the purple bear up and gives it a small hug. He doesn’t remember his parents, but he remembers this. It traveled with him across the Capital, reminded him things would be alright even when the challenges seemed insurmountable, and now its missing eye and patched-together body help put a smile on his face.

It’s a decision he’s been eager to avoid, whether or not to take it on the trip. No one has any idea what to expect, except that the last few parties who ventured north didn’t come back. He’s never been afraid to die, but he’s afraid to lose the small connection he has to his youth. The only friend that never questioned him, he sets the bear on his desk and plants himself into the chair, staring into its beady eye.

“What do you think, Bear?” His hands run over its matted fur. “What kind of man would I be if I brought a child’s toy with me all the way to the Commonwealth? Some might question my sanity just for talking to you.”

“Some might, including your elder.”

Danse chuckles and turns in his seat.

“Arthur, didn’t expect you to still be sober enough to speak.”

“Wait until I turn twenty, you’ll never be to a party so large.”

“I would think your wedding day would be a large affair.”

“A large farce, you mean.”

Maxson lets the door slam shut behind him and sits on Danse’s bed, kicking off his boots before stretching out. Danse has to reposition himself to continue their conversation, but it’s worth it to see the smile on his elder’s face.

“A farce?”

“The biggest farce the world’s seen since the bombs dropped. Any woman who would want to marry me is power hungry. She won’t love me.”

“It’s not always about love,” Danse reminds him. “The West Coast expects another Maxson.”

“They’ve been sending me messages since I was elected elder about settling down with someone. Not that I care. They can’t tell a Maxson when to make another Maxson.”

“Of course not, Arthur. They’ll sit by idly, twiddling their thumbs.”

“Are you encouraging me to get married?” A flash of hurt crosses Maxson’s face. His new beard makes him appear older, but he’s barely nineteen, and Danse doesn’t want to put the weight of the world on his shoulders, but he knows it’s for the best.

“I think I am.”

“But—”

“Arthur.”

“It’s not what I want.”

“Sometimes we do things even when we don’t want to do things.”

“I couldn’t love her.”

Danse doesn’t want to hear the reason why; he knows it on a deeper level, has felt it in the longing way Maxson stares at him when he thinks he’s safe, has experienced it time and again in their brief kisses. The reason is clear, but to say it out loud would make it too real.

So he changes the subject.

“I have to finish packing, sir.”

“You’re not finished already? Haylen should skin you alive.”

“Haylen couldn’t skin above my knees if she jumped.”

They laugh and settle into a comfortable silence as Danse resumes his pacing, picking things up and setting things down in silent appraisal. Maxson watches him for a while, but soon his eyes turn to the bear still propped up on Danse’s desk, its heavy head slumped onto its chest.

“When did you get that?”

“I’ve always had it.” Danse shrugs. “Carried it with me through everything.”

“Impressive. How come I’ve never seen it?”

“I don’t sleep with it.”

Maxson plucks it from the metal surface it rests on and tosses it in the air. Danse winces at the way its limbs flail, the stitching weak after all these years, but he doesn’t stop the other man.

“Cute. Didn’t figure you for the sentimental type.”

“We all have our layers.”

Another silence. Maxson holds the bear close until Danse finishes his preparations and sets his bag by the door for the morning. They both feel it growing closer, the early shift already creaking around in other places.

“Danse? Why did you volunteer for this?”

“It’s an opportunity to expand our knowledge of the Institute and tribes of the Commonwealth.”

“It’s a suicide run.”

“Someone has to do it.”

“Do you want to die?”

Danse swallows the lie. This isn’t his elder speaking—it’s the child who looked up to him with wide eyes and hope, and Danse can’t bring himself to skirt the truth when this may be the last informal interaction they have.

“Sometimes.”

“Why?”

He sits on the edge of the bed. It groans under his weight.

“Sometimes I think about all the people I’ve killed, all the horror I’ve seen, and I don’t want to fight through it. Then I remember what we stand for, the inspiration your leadership has given me. It’s irresponsible to want to die because things are bad. It won’t make things better.”

And Maxson isn’t drunk, not this time, but tears start to form at the edges of his eyes.

“I don’t want you to go. I could change things right now.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“What if you die?”

“I could die at any time, Arthur. We all could. A death for the Brotherhood has meaning. It’s better than being slaughtered at the hands of raiders or mutants or ghouls or whatever disfigured animal is hungry enough to attack.” Maxson winces. Danse regrets his words immediately. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine. Yeah, it’s dangerous out there.” Maxson flexes his mechanical hand and quiets for a few seconds, deep in thought. “What about the nightmares?”

“You haven’t had one for a long time.”

“They’re bound to start up when you’re gone. That’s how those things work.”

Of course it is. Danse always sleeps better safe on the Prydwen than he does out in the field. He doesn’t look forward to rediscovering the horrors buried in his mind. Digging them up is a part of being a reliable solider for the Brotherhood and everything it represents, though, and he’s willing to suffer for duty.

“Take the bear.”

Maxson’s eyes widen.

“What?”

“His name is Bear. You can have him.” Danse slides closer to Maxson, their hips touching. “I don’t want to travel with it, knowing the dangers. You have to promise to take good care of it, though. No new stitching when I get back.”

The promise is unspoken. I will get back, he means. The bear an investment.

Maxson smiles and leans in, heat radiating between them.

“I’m going to miss you a whole damn lot, solider.”

“I’m going to miss you too, elder.”

“Don’t call me that,” he says, but his words are sprinkled with a light laugh.

Danse laces their fingers together, running his thumb over the top of Maxson’s hand. His callous runs against hardened knuckles. Unsure of what exactly his actions mean to either of them, Danse brings Maxson’s hand to his lips, kissing it gently.

They sit for a long while, the bear on Maxson’s lap. Danse’s throat tightens, he can barely breathe. Their eyes meet once again, and there’s an electricity between them, a low want that’s been there for years and continues to intercede in all of Danse’s attempts to distance them. He licks his lips, watches Maxson do the same. The long scar running down the elder’s cheek, the gouge that’s been there for years now, blends handsomely with the beard. He looks mature, not a child, but a man who can make his own decisions.

And he does.

Danse doesn’t pull away when their mouths meet. He folds into the kiss, into the unsure way Maxson’s lips move over his own, the way their tongues come together for the first time, exploring and excited. Their hands separate, and Danse takes the opportunity to cup Maxson’s cheek, deepening the kiss. His eyes flutter closed. His heart hammers in his chest. He can’t say it in words, doesn’t know if a way to form the sentence even exists, but he knows Maxson will understand that this doesn’t mean goodbye.

They part to breathe, planting small pecks until they can resume their kissing.

Hours seem to pass, and maybe they do, between the first kiss and the next and the next and the next. It comes in a flood. They hold each other and kiss and laugh and nibble and Danse regrets having to leave.

The dawn comes too soon. They untangle their bodies from one another, dress in their own rooms, and Danse leaves with nothing more than a handshake and a smile.

“I’ll see you soon, Paladin.”


	4. Chapter 4

Danse is grateful to be out of his power armor. The metal shell means safety in the hellscape of the Commonwealth, but that safety comes at the price of a constant ache in his muscles. He stretches his arms above his head and unbuckles his cap, slinging it into the nearby hamper where a bundle of orange uniforms sit heaped in a canvas bag. The smell of sweat and grease and working gears fills his nose, and Danse smiles.

It’s good to be home.

Nora has wandered off somewhere. He feels responsible for her, but a woman of her caliber can survive roaming the Prydwen and meeting the proctors alone. Right now, Danse needs a break. Seeing Maxson again—his beard fuller, his eyes wiser—woke something deep in his heart, and he walks towards the elder’s room. He tries his hardest to be casual, to make conversation with the recruits-turned-knights, the various scribes, and the young squires who have grown in the year and a half since he last set foot aboard the ship. Twisting a path through the swarms of people, Danse makes it to the quiet corner of the ship where his quarters and Maxson’s stand side by side. He knocks on the door and waits, the shuffling of paper and boots clear through walls.

Maxson smiles, his lips turning up as he grabs Danse into a hug before stiffening.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, cheeks flushed under the thicket of dark facial hair. “Come in, Paladin.”

Danse scoots around the smaller man, unsure of what to do with his hands, where to place himself, as Maxson shuts the door with a small click. He turns on his heels the moment the rest of the world is blocked away from them and plants his hands on Danse’s cheeks, drawing him into a soft kiss. Danse returns it immediately, grabbing Maxson’s narrow hips and pulling him forward.

“I missed you,” he says between tastes of the young elder. “It’s been too long.”

“You missed my birthday. Twenty was as good a party as we’ve ever had.”

They laugh against each other’s mouths, enjoying the sensation of being close, of being together once again.

“I’ll be here for the next one.”

“You better.” Maxson’s prosthetic fingers slip through Danse’s hair, combing it back as their tongues tangle together. Danse moans into the contact, every lonely night worth it to be alone with Maxson, whose eyes sparkle when he pulls away. “I kept Bear safe for you. Little guy made it up here after all.”

Warmth spreads through his veins, voice catching in his throat.

“Thank you,” Danse manages.

“There are a lot of things to do. I wish we could have longer, but,” Maxson trails off, glancing at his feet. “I’d like to give it back to you. A homecoming present.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. He deserves to see his friend after all this time. I’m sure you have plenty of stories to tell both of us, beyond tomorrow’s debriefing.”

Danse groans at the thought of filing his reports, the proctors’ eyes all on him. “It will be good to practice, I suppose.”

Maxson steps away and picks the bear off his unmade bed, cradling it gently in his arms before handing it back to Danse. The purple fur is soft still, and Danse laughs to see another patch added to its ear.

“I thought I said to bring it back the same. Good thing you’re elder, Arthur. Anyone else would be angry that you couldn’t follow orders.”

“Shut up.” He chuckles and kisses Danse once again. “Go relax. We’ll talk more in the morning. I have work to do.”

Danse nods his head and exits the room, heart aching from the dismissal. He returns to his own room, breathing in the faint scent of Maxson. He would put good caps on the idea that the other man spent nights in here, the bed in the same state of disarray as Maxson’s. He makes it quickly, folding the sheets into quick, unwrinkled lines. The organization eases his pain, and his stomach growls for a real plate of food, not the meager scraps they scrounged together over long months to help their rations last.

He heads to the mess hall and regroups with old friends and Nora, explaining things to her as best he can, though she herself is lost in thought. Eventually, the decks grow quiet, and she retires to her cot, leaving Danse alone in the dark kitchen. He stands and throws the bottle of beer into the recycling bin, sorry for whatever initiate has the job of cleaning tomorrow. Everyone paid a visit to learn about the Commonwealth, and the evidence of friendly drinking is stacked high in the plastic bag.

With a yawn, he begins the short trek back to his room, eager to feel the firm comfort of a mattress underneath his body. It’s the little things that matter the most, he finds, thinking about the luxury of a shower in the near future. Safety in numbers and technology, that’s a benefit he’s put his life on the line for many a time.

Danse reaches to the knob of his door when he hears the whisper of sobbing coming from Maxson’s room. He frowns, fearing the worst, and enters the elder’s room without knocking. Maxson lays on the bed, pillow clutched to his chest.

He sits up when Danse perches himself on the side of the bed, wiping at his tears.

“Paladin,” he greets, trembling voice barely masked by formality. “How can I help you?”

“You don’t have to hide from me, Arthur. Was it another nightmare?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“This is the first one. The bear helped.”

“Then why did you give it back?”

Maxson bites his lower lip, a cute habit for a man raised as a soldier.

“I thought you would think it was silly if I kept it.”

Danse kisses Maxson’s forehead. “Never.”

He excuses himself quietly and brings back the bear, setting it on the pillow not soaked with tears.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really, no. I’ve led an army to the north. It’s stupid to be plagued by silly dreams.”

Danse wraps Maxson into a hug, drawing relief when the younger man returns it, resting his head on Danse’s shoulder. He runs his hand up and down Maxson’s back, trying to sooth as best he can. It isn’t something he’s used to, but it seems to help. After a while, he pulls away and wipes away a stray tear.

“It’s not stupid to be afraid of what happened to you. These aren’t things that should be hidden. It’s what makes you stronger.”

Maxson snorts. “Anyone else who saw me crying like a baby would turn tail and leave. You’re the exception.”

“I like being the exception.”

“Are you flirting, Paladin?”

Danse answers him with a kiss, mouth finding purchase on willing lips. They move together in a rhythm that has Danse’s heart pounding in seconds, and something is different this time. Maxson pulls him in closer, their bodies slanting until they’re flat against the mattress, Danse laying on top, his hands planted on either side of Maxson’s head. He grinds his arousal down, and Maxson meets him eagerly, moaning at the friction.

“I missed you,” Maxson whispers between kisses. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I love you.”

The words spill from him before he can stop himself, and the shy, excited smile spreading across Maxson’s face is the most beautiful thing Danse has ever seen.

“I love you, too.”

If he could, Danse would stop time and live in the moment. This is a far cry from those first few nights six years ago, when Maxson was a boy and he was barely a man. The friendship between them has blossomed into something he craves, and Maxson himself has become a man Danse can’t stop from kissing and touching. He doesn’t believe in fate or a higher power, nothing besides the cold reality of a rifle in his hand has ever made him feel like he belongs, but the touch of Maxson’s lips gives him a joy that is beyond heavenly.

He slides his hands under Maxson’s shirt, slipping higher and higher until he lands on defined, muscular pecs, his fingers squeezing at nipples until Maxson whimpers underneath him and arches into his touch. Through so many long, hard nights in the Commonwealth, these were the thoughts that brought him comfort. To have them physical and real is unimaginably, unbelievably wonderful.

Danse wastes no time in disrobing Maxson. The shirt goes first, exposing the younger man’s torso. The thick hair on his chest thins as it reaches his stomach, then grows thick once again as it disappears into the elastic band of his pajamas. Danse’s cock stands rigid at the sight, and with a series of kisses, he follows the line of hair down until his eyes are level with Maxson’s own pulsing arousal. Through the fabric, Danse licks and nuzzles it, drawing a sharp, needy grunt from his superior.

He hooks his fingers in the band and tugs, taking the underwear with the pants and exposing Maxson to the ship’s cold air. It occurs to Danse as he begins to stroke that this is the first time he has seen the other man’s cock, the first time he has had his hand properly on it, nothing standing between them and the undeniable pleasure of skin-on-skin.

Which isn’t to say he doesn’t know what to do with something so beautiful. Maxson was not a thought on his mind when Danse had his first foray into sex, and their intermittent kisses never stopped him from getting to know other men. It would have been impossible to resist this long without the touch of another, but as Maxson quakes underneath him, the head of his cock leaking furiously, Danse pauses to ask.

“Has anyone ever done this to you before?”

Maxson turns his head in the opposite direction and frowns.

“Of course. I—I’m the elder, Danse. People want to—”

Danse gives another long, languid stroke, causing Maxson’s hips to buck up and into the contact.

“But have you let them?”

Quietly.

“No.”

Maxson’s face grows bright red at the truth, and Danse is equal parts amazed, horrified, and baffled. He thinks of pulling back and stopping things before they get too far because he’s not sure if he should be the person giving Maxson his first hand job. He’s not sure he should be the person doing any of this. It breaks decorum, breaks a number of moral rules that go unsaid but heeded.

And then Maxson is burying his face in his palms and groaning.

“Please, Danse.” His voice is little more than a hushed whisper under the weight of his hands. “It’s not going to happen unless it’s you. I’ve tried and I can’t—You’re the only one who gets me hard.”

This is not something Danse accounted for. He doubts anyone could have foreseen this situation, could have planned in advance to stop this, and he swallows his upset because this is his duty. If Maxson needs this from him, he will give it. Pleasure, security, anything and everything.

Danse has always been Maxson’s loyal soldier.

He runs his thumb along the slit, smoothing the clear liquid down in circles around the head of Maxson’s cock. Danse has always been confident in things he can do with his hands. Fixing power armor is the same as touching a man. It requires precision and dexterity, attention to detail, and Danse is good at these things. He focuses on the gasps, the roll of Maxson’s hips under him. Speaking is difficult unless it is giving instruction, and words feel out of place in the darkened cabin. He prefers to use his mouth to place kisses along the vein of Maxson’s cock, moving lower to inhale the heady scent of musk clinging to his balls.

What should be wrong, isn’t. Years ago, it may have been taking advantage, but Maxson is no longer a child. His body has matured into an admirable, delectable piece of art, and Danse is eager to scour every inch for places that can wipe away the ever-present strain residing in Maxson’s tense muscles. He tastes like perspiration, his manhood like man, and Danse grows weaker the longer he stays in Maxson’s presence.

He lost the ability to resist long ago, and now he wants nothing more than to be what Maxson needs him to be.

For his part in things, Maxson is still a good leader. His hands have moved from his face to Danse’s hair, fingers gripping the short strands to leverage him down, further, beyond Maxson’s balls and toward his puckered entrance. Danse hears the command croaked out in a wavering tone, more trepidation than is necessary. “With your tongue.”

Danse stops stroking Maxson’s cock and instead runs his fingers along the younger man’s thighs, lifting them up and over his shoulders, spreading Maxson wide to grant him easy access. He licks once, twice, and then Maxson forces him forward, nose bumping against hairy taint. Danse moans and traces the clenched muscle with his tongue, slicking it with saliva as he kisses. His hands fall to Maxson’s shapely ass, squeezing the meat and separating the cheeks as far as they will go, preparing them both for the moment quickly approaching.

He pours all his energy into fucking Maxson with his tongue, absorbing the soft gasps as he probes deep inside, relaxing the taut muscles of Maxson’s willing body. One hand skims across his backside, and Danse uses the spit-soaked area to guide a finger in, the first knuckle readily incorporated as his tongue stroked the rim of Maxson’s hole. He pushes it further, not stopping until the edge of his fist is pressed flush to the younger man’s skin.

With a heavy sigh, Danse pulls his mouth away so he can watch Maxson’s face as he curls his finger and rubs it against his prostate.

Maxson’s hips lift off the bed, and he releases a long, drawn-out moan that has Danse diving forward again, eagerly lapping up the precum spilling out of Maxson’s cock. He eases his finger in and out, almost shocked at the way Maxson has already adjusted to him.

“Do you do this to yourself?” Danse asks. Maxson’s reply is no more than a stiff nod. “I see. Have you been longing for me, Elder? Do you touch yourself at night and think of me?”

Danse shifts once more. He lays against Maxson so that he may whisper in the man’s ear and kiss at his exposed throat, finger ceaselessly teasing Maxson’s hole.

“I think of you,” Danse adds, voice hushed.

Maxson clenches around his finger, thick ropes of cum shooting out and landing on his exposed belly and thighs. He groans and turns his head to the side, capturing Danse’s mouth in a slow, lingering kiss. Danse is more surprised by the display of needy affection than the sudden orgasm, having known from the beginning how easy it would be to push Maxson over the edge. Still, he returns the kiss in equal measure, letting his tongue drift into Maxson’s open mouth, letting the younger man taste himself.

They pull apart, a thin line of saliva connecting their lips.

Danse smiles and prods Maxson’s entrance with a second finger. He remembers being a young man, remembers having a young man’s cock. Maxson’s has stayed erect through the pleasure, only a bit softer than before, and Danse using this to his advantage.

“Do you know how much you’ve tortured me? How much I’ve longed to be in you?”

Two fingers push inside. Maxson gasps.

“N-no.” Though his voice has deepened since that first nightmare after the deathclaw, Maxson still remains a stuttering mess in the face of Danse’s experience. Despite himself, Danse finds that he likes knowing how to push the young elder’s buttons, loves being able to dominate the situation with a superior officer.

“You kissed me when you were sixteen. Do you remember that, Arthur?”

Maxson nods.

“I was drunk and you were barely a man. Didn’t even have a beard.”

To emphasize his point, Danse nuzzles into Maxson’s beard. The rough hair slides against his stubble, and he groans low as his cock strains to be free of his pants.

“I’m sorry.”

There is sweat on Maxson’s brow. His pretty lips are parted to suck in air, and Danse can’t resist kissing him once again.

“I wanted to take you that night. Wanted to fuck you senseless, have the Capital Wasteland listen to you screaming my name. I want the Prydwen to know how much you want me. How much you need me.”

Danse sinks his fingers all the way inside, curling up and using his thumb to massage Maxson’s taint. He grinds against the other man’s thigh as he does, breath hot.

“Everyone thinks you’ve matured into some great leader. Born of steel. You never wanted to be, that’s what you keep telling me. All you ever paid attention to was my arms during combat training, my mouth during tactical decisions.”

He increases his pace, slipping his fingers in and out. Maxson struggles to find purchase for his heels on the mattress. His hands grip at the bars of the bedframe, and he moans his pleasure loudly into the night air.

Then he finds his voice.

“Fuck me. Please, Danse. Please. Put your cock in me and fuck me.”

Danse doesn’t think he’d ever heard something so wonderful in his entire life. He takes his hand away from Maxson then yanks his trousers open, button popping from the force, before pushing them down around his thighs. Maxson starts to turn over, starts to get onto his hands and knees, but Danse stops him.

“I want to see your face,” he says, voice husky, think with want and need.

Maxson complies without a sound as Danse settles between his legs, cock aching. He grabs the younger man’s hips and presses the tip in, slowly at first, but there is no resistance and he finds himself unable to stop from entering Maxson fully, from burying himself to the hilt inside his elder’s body.

Danse sees stars. Maxson’s hole contracts around him with even the shallowest of thrusts, and Danse has never been one to stay idle. He pays attention to Maxson’s face as he draws back, unlubed cock burning from the hot friction, then forces his way back in. The spit does little to help the process, but Maxson’s cheeks are ruddy and his moans are loud and Danse can’t help but go faster, fingers digging into Maxson’s hips.

Soon the slapping of skin fills the silence. Both men have moved to grunting their pleasure, words having long ago been lost to sensation.

It keeps building, and Danse wants nothing more than to fill Maxson completely, to claim Maxson because he has worked so hard to avoid fucking the other man. And now, barely undressed, Danse is in him, is sighing and moaning at the way Maxson responds to his cock.

“I’m going to come in you,” he warns, nowhere near close.

Maxson nods absently, organic arm wedged between their bodies. Danse can feel Maxson tug desperately at his erection, can see the approaching storm before it hits.

So he leans closer, breath ghosting over the shell of Maxson’s ear, and takes command.

“Come for me, Elder. I want you to milk my cock and make a mess between us.” He snaps his hips forward in emphasis. Maxson curses. “Now.”

That’s all it takes for Maxson to shoot his load for the second time that night, sticky seed spreading over both their stomachs as Danse continues to fuck Maxson’s raw hole. Without warning, Danse shifts his weight and pushes Maxson’s thighs up, fucking into the other man mercilessly until the pleasure in his lower belly unfurls.

He comes with a shout. His hips work without the rest of his body, and it feels so good. Danse cannot reason why he waited so long to have this because Maxson’s expression is tired and happy, and this is the most relaxed he has ever been, all because Danse’s cock is rammed up his ass.

It’s over, then, and Danse lowers himself, breathing unsteadily as his cock slips from Maxson’s body.

“I love you,” he whispers, placing a soft kiss to Maxson’s bearded jaw.

“You too.”

They adjust so that Maxson has his back against Danse and Danse’s arm draped over his waist. Maxson grabs the bear, which had been unceremoniously shoved to the side during their fuck—Danse is loathed to call it lovemaking—and wraps his arms around it. Sweaty and naked, he cuddles the old thing like a child, and before long, Danse can hear him snore.

The lack of talking is good for Danse, at least. He has no desire to hear himself speak, nor to go over the events that have led, almost inevitably, to this. Rather, he curls around Maxson, hoping to protect the man from nightmares and whatever else plagues him.

All along, this is what he has wanted. No words, no whiskey, no rank. Just the two of them in a bed, no space between them. Danse places his hand over Maxson’s heart, feels it beat in a steady rhythm, and sighs. He has his fears that this will end, maybe horribly, because Maxson needs heirs and soldiers shouldn’t date superiors, but for now, Danse closes his eyes and rests.

In the morning, when they wake again, Maxson smiles at him like this has been their relationship all along.

“Did you sleep well?” Danse asks, though through the night he felt no trembling, no shake of bad dreams. Maxson replies by kissing him, too softly for a man raised by war, and nods. For once, the nightmares seem to have left him alone. He lacks the haunted gaze, lacks the terror Danse has seen more than enough for a lifetime.

He returns the kiss, equally slow and gentle, and relaxes.

There is nothing more he can do.


End file.
